Little Talks
by rogermon
Summary: A set of conversations on the way home.
1. Chapter 1

**This is essentially a collection of my headcanons about Roger (mostly his background) that I tried to put together in a story of sorts. Roger/Simon as a friendship. Title is the Of Monsters and Men song. Rated T for language, some more serious topics, and because I'm staying on the safe side. This is my first attempt at anything multi-chaptered by myself so… here we go? Woo. **

**My thanks and sparkles to Apocalypse1718 for beta-ing/proofreading this and informing me that I swear a lot.**

**Disclaimer: I don't claim ownership over any of the characters in Lord of the Flies or Of Monsters of Men.**

Roger shared the room on the cruiser with seven other boys, but he was the only one in it at the moment. The room was one of the larger ones that had been cleared out for the boys, but one could never have told because four sets of bunk beds were crammed against the walls and each other, leaving a narrow walkway from the door to the opposite way that could only really be used for walking. Sideways.

Roger's bed was the bottom one in the set that was furthest from the door and on the left. Leaning against the steel of the ship, he had a mostly full view of the room.

At the moment, he was watching the door intently, but his mind had wandered already. He didn't expect anyone to enter. The window to his right told him that it was day. He couldn't even remember seeing the others at night when they slept. During the day was out of the question.

_They fucking _play_ on the ship t__hey still think it's a fucking game don't they oh what do they know they can go back and say the game ended and that now it was time to stop playing at savages and smile and sing about their fucking god and –_

His fist clenched but he held back from hitting the wooden wall separating this room and the one to its right. Somebody could be in that room. And they could come over to check and there would be questions and they'd leave but it wouldn't be quiet and he wouldn't be alone and everything would be wrong.

Instead, he settled for the metal shell. The fist made a satisfying, echoing sound as it hit the steel. Roger settled back against his pillow and rubbed his hand; it'd started to hurt quite a bit after the anger had suddenly left him.

The room was beginning to feel a little too stuffy. His head hurt and his chest hurt and _fuck no I'm not going to cry there's nothing to cry about just breathe and –_

He shut his eyes and tried to take slow breaths. It was most successful.

When he opened his eyes again, a small boy was sitting across from him on the other end of the unmade bed.

Roger heard himself inhale sharply and his eyes widen. Quickly, he adjusted his expression back to the neutral mask and stared. The back of the boy's head had taken up most his vision for a little over three years, but it had been covered with a neat black cap then. The stiff collar and black cloak were still there, though, as well as the silver cross that shined like it had never seen the island.

There was only silence and staring for what seemed like years. When it became clear that Roger was not going to speak first, the boy did.

"Hey, Roger."

Roger continued to look at him uncomprehendingly. _Maybe he survived maybe he got on board after the rest of us did and I just didn't see him no, no, no but that doesn't explain the clothes though and how can he be alive how could the marks on his face just disappear just heal you gouged that skin yourself you goddamn idiot._

"Hello" was his uncertain reply. His voice sounded scratchy to himself. How long had it been since he'd spoken?

Simon's smile widened. "How have you been? We haven't talked in a while, have we?"

_We rarely _ever_ talked. _"Fine – um, good. A, uh, ship… found us."

"Oh, that's great!" The happiness on Simon's face was completely genuine. "Is the situation safe back in England, then?"

"I…" _Was it safe? _Roger didn't remember hearing about whether or not the bombs had stopped. But someone must've mentioned it. Jack would've. He was the leader. Roger frowned as his thoughts went to the head chorister. He remembered him standing in front of the choir as they boarded the plane and him with clay smeared over his face but he couldn't remember if he'd come on the ship.

_Of course he had he was right behind Ralph on the beach he couldn't have been left behind. _Memories floated up and Roger thought he remembered seeing the red hair in the room. In the bunk above, perhaps. _Did I speak to him? Why hasn't he spoken to me?_

Before his mind could reply bitterly, Roger returned to the conversation happening outside of his head. "I suppose it must be," he said slowly. "We're going back. I think."

"You excited?" Simon was now rocking back and forth slightly, as if there was some excess energy that talking couldn't quite satisfy.

_No, not at all._

Simon was still talking. "– damage won't be too terrible. Gosh, I hardly remember the school. It feels like such a long time but I think that may just be because the island was so _different_. I'm sorry, does that make sense?"

"I suppose it does." Roger thought Simon looked very real. He was half tempted to reach out and touch the black fabric of the cloak. But he didn't, and resorted to a question. "Are you real?" he asked clumsily.

Simon blinked his rather large eyes up at him and gave a small shrug. "We're talking right now."

"Yeah." Roger drew the word out as he tried to think. "Why?"

"Well… we never really talked back at school. Or at the island."

There was the silence again. Roger broke it this time. "Okay." He repositioned himself so that his legs were crossed as well, his entire body mimicking Simon's. "Okay," he repeated, a little bit louder. With a sigh, he said, "What… would you like to talk about?" His flat voice made it seem like a statement rather than a question.

Simon shrugged lightly again. "Anything, really. Like… did you ever have a pet?"

_Why is this happening why are you talking about goddamn pets with a kid you knew and killed he's a ghost spirit something he's here to haunt you guilt you because you're a fucking murderer or maybe you're just going insane – oh what a nice thought – but that's a new kind of crazy, hallucinating small talk with your dead classmates what the hell are you doing Roger you don't know what's going on why the hell is he here what the hell is he do you even fucking care anymore._

"I had a fish once. And I still have a cat."

**Thank you for reading! Any sort of feedback would be much appreciated. Updates will come weekly/often, I hope. This chapter was mainly exposition so I apologize if it was a bit dull and short. Thanks again for reading :)**


	2. Chapter 2

**Thank you to everybody who read it!**

**- DaBusDriva58/Guest – I don't plan on Piggy making an appearance, but he'll definitely be brought up. A lot.**

**- Juniper Bush – Thanks! Hopefully it continues along that track :)**

* * *

Simon nodded to behind Roger. "My mum took me and my brother sailing once. I was nine, I think."

Roger turned to look out the window too. "This is my first time on a ship, actually." It was getting darker out. _How long have we been on here? _He thought he saw stars but the ship suddenly lurched and he had to away quickly.

"You're not doing too bad then. My brother was sick after half an hour." Simon cocked his head. "You have any siblings?"

"Yeah, um, older brother and little sister. Christopher. And Ariette."

He tried to remember their faces but it was like looking through water. Ariette had looked like him, he thought. If she had been able to gain weight she might've looked more like her mother but her unnaturally thin face reminded everyone of her other parent. Christopher's hair had been lighter than the other members of his family, a tint duller than Jack's, Roger thought. Roger heard his father's voice again, only half-joking that some brains had left along with the color in Chris's hair. His mother had replied with a laugh that no, that wasn't the reason.

His father rarely shouted, but Chris almost always did when arguments arose. Then his mother would enter the scene with a sigh and snap at Chris no matter how many bruises were already forming on her eldest son. _Then the anger just… transferred down the line. _"Chris hated them," Roger muttered to himself. _And I hated him. I hate him I hate him I hate him I should have stuck a knife in his leg and it wouldn't have mattered how big he was. Father, too._ When _he_ was nine, he had bought a pocketknife just for that purpose, but the occasion never really arose. _Or maybe it did, and you just avoided it. _

"Parents?"

"Mm. Chris wanted to join the army and there was hardly any support. He _did_, actually, just after summer break started this year. Maybe he's on this ship." Roger smiled at the possibility, although it wasn't a particularly humorous concept.

_No. He isn't in the navy. I don't think so. Was he? No. Right? _Still, he considered Chris's reaction. Chris had only left a few months ago. He'd still be angry. But then again, he was with his friends, his fellow soldiers. He'd be ordered. Cold, but polite. Roger found _that_ idea to be amusing.

Then he wondered which son his parents would approve of more now.

It wasn't as if he _looked_ filthy. The officers had scrounged some spare shirts that were usually too large. Roger's hung down at his knees. He'd taken a bath too. Sure, his hair was longer, just brushing his shoulders, he looked very near to how he did when he boarded the plane.

There were scratches here and there. One was rather large, and he thought that he had gotten it in that last hunt. A stray spear, probably. _It was bleeding a lot. My hands were completely red. Or was that the paint. A man had tried to bandage it_, he remembered._ I just glared at him._

It wasn't bleeding now, and he touched the red mark absentmindedly. It didn't hurt that badly. He pressed harder at it, frowning, and when he felt a slight prick, he relaxed.

"We killed you," Roger muttered after a moment. "Do you remember it?" _This isn't real either way and you'll end up in a hospital with those white rooms and white coats and they'll lock you up either way might as well ask right Roger._

"Yes."

_Is that why you're here? _he wanted to ask. Just that, over and over. _But I don't feel guilty. I don't think I do._

"Is that why you're here?"

Simon had been rocking back and forth just slightly, eyes forward, but now he stopped and his stare focused. "No," he replied slowly. It isn't why. Why do _you_ have such a need for a reason?"

_I don't usually see dead classmates. _He hoped it wouldn't become something regular. Simon he could stand. Piggy, though, he wasn't sure of. And God knows who else might show up. The island had seemed so surreal when he had taken a moment to stop and think for a moment. Then he'd continue running or shouting or laughing and it didn't matter that much anymore.

"Does it hurt?" Roger asked suddenly. "Dying and all that," he added, quite unnecessarily.

"Well. The scratches and everything before hurt."

_Of course. We all heard the screams._

Simon looked to be in thought. "I don't know."

_So he's a ghost._ Roger wasn't sure why he was slightly comforted by this conclusion.

_Should I be scared?_

_Of what?_

Roger had, like most boys, read one ghost story or another, and he'd overheard stories being passed around the choir room. Maurice had told one to him directly once. Maurice's presentation had been overdramatic, and Roger had only nodded coolly after the tale was finished, but he didn't sleep that much for the rest of the week. However, Roger could barely recall the plot now. _Did it include a house no that was the one with the bat or was it a dog this one had a forest and we lived by some trees so I think –_

"I'm not here to _haunt_ you or something." Roger started but the smaller boy was smiling lightly. "You looked a bit…" Simon shrugged.

"Well if you're not here to force me to repent my sins, why don't you..." _Leave just leave please. _He didn't quite finish his sentence, though, because at the same time, though, Simon's presence was nice. Not soothing or anything close. Just pleasant.

"There's no reason for me not to be here." The smile twitched a bit. "There's nothing that bad about your company, you know," Simon added quietly.

Roger laughed. "You think so? Consider yourself special."

The other boy laughed too, cautiously. It wasn't a mean one. "I mean it though. Everyone made a snide comment at one point but you never made fun of me. And you helped me to my room that one time because I fainted during practice, remember? Our rooms were in the same hall." He paused as if remembering. "It was a good group. We were all close, I suppose, because of the small number. Nobody really wanted to live at St. Peter's."

"It's why I applied, actually," Roger blurted. It had only been a thought, but the words became spoken too. "Home… w-was not that friendly. And there are better teachers, you know, at private schools," he finished lamely.

"You actually wanted to go? My parents made me apply. Of course, I loved the place eventually but…" Simon made a motion with his hand to indicate whatever he had left unsaid.

"Yeah. I wanted to." _– get away from being alone but no leaving didn't help you didn't think you could get away how could you ever get away you just wanted to not be reminded you wanted control._

It had not been difficult convincing his parents to let him attend. Roger sincerely doubted that his absence from home (save for holidays) changed much. The only difference had been the cost of the school, and that was hardly an issue.

He remembered approaching his mother the spring before he had started at St. Peter's. It had been nearly bedtime for him, and Ariette had already fallen asleep. A "better education" had been one of the key points in the rather one-sided conversation. His mother had nodded afterwards and congratulated him on being independent, all with her eyes on the papers yet to be graded in front of her. Then she had actually looked up and asked him if he had had any homework left. After a grudging affirmative from Roger, she had ushered him out of her study with a vague, tired smile and a "make sure set your priorities better next time".

Roger realized that he was still waiting for Simon to respond but the other boy made no indication to speak. He was just looking. Waiting and wondering.

_To hell with it._

And maybe he wanted to talk too.

"The classes and choir and everything took up time. I don't think I cared as much about being isolated. Everyone was separated from their families. At least for school hours and activities."

"Oh." Pause. "You did always seemed… quiet."

_Anti-social, you mean?_ "Yeah. I guess I, uh, liked being alone. And I _did_ talk to others," he added defensively though no true attack had been made. "I talked to you. On occasions."

"You never spoke in class though."

"Mm. Inspired many lectures after class from teachers." Roger had gotten a few curious looks the first few times he was called to stay after. But the calls grew more frequent, and soon others just began to assume it was some extra assignment, or some medication, or something in between. He just became less and less noticed as per usual. Only Jack scolded him once for being late to practice. Even the teachers forgot in a way. The speech about how actively participating was important in the learning process as well as in becoming a good citizen, capped with a sigh and the "I will still give you what you earned", was repeated word for word every time Roger had to stay after. Roger would nod grimly and continue his regular behavior in class the following day. Repeat. "But I think they liked me. I mean I spent enough time on classes and I suppose it showed."

Simon laughed in surprise. "Oh, what? You never said anything, though. About your marks. Or anything."

"Well if I talked as much as Jack _I_ would've been made class president," Roger replied with a smirk.

"Nah, all the teachers adored Jack too much."

_Everybody else hates him though._ _But they all followed him, didn't they? Wanted him to like them?_

The laughter faded and Roger said quietly, "I don't think I really had… any friends or anything. Nobody that I talked with regularly or, you know, looked forward to seeing. They were just there." He looked down and started smoothing the portion of the sheets nearest to him. "And I, uh, didn't care too much, I don't think. I was horrible with people. And talking in general."

"You're speaking fine right now."

_But you're not a person. Not right now._ "Sure."

"Are we friends? Sort of? A bit?" Simon was grinning widely and looked as if he was about to start jumping about the room, but Roger got the feeling that he was serious.

"Sure."

* * *

** Thanks for making it through another chapter. A review/comment would be amazing. **

** (Next chapters will make their way through the canon plot after Simon's death.)**


	3. Chapter 3

**I'm sorry I'm horrible at updating on time.**

Simon looked down, fiddling with the sheets before curiosity seemed to get the better of him. "What happened afterwards?"

_Afterwards. After the dance or whatever that was. Afterwards. Right. _"We needed a fire – the hunters did, so the next night, Jack led Maurice and I to the other camp. R-Ralph's. And we took the specs."

"You stole them."

"Yes, we did. Because we _could_." Roger tried to harden both his voice and face. From behind this mask, he tried to judge Simon's feelings, guess what he would say next, and consider ways to maneuver with this new knowledge.

Roger was good at this. The years of practice at home had not come into use much at St. Peter's, when most everyone never spared him an emotion, but he was nonetheless grateful for the skill.

He had watched Chris's face when the elder arrived home from school every day. If Chris's face was pinched and his eyebrows lowered, Roger would go out the back door quietly. If the situation was especially bad (maybe a scowl was thrown into the features too) Roger would go to Ariette's room and sit with his mother. It was cowardly, and both brothers knew it. However, his mother would smile in thanks. It was a completely oblivious smile, one reflecting the belief that Roger cared about whatever condition his sister was in at the moment. He had spoken very little to his sister, but he supposed he did care, at least a bit. Maybe.

_But she had to have known, right? Eventually. I mean, she's smart – _

_But not too smart in _that_ way –_

_But parents are supposed to know those things and whether you give a damn or not and they're supposed to know about you. _

_I guess she was different._

Roger had told his mother when he was seven that Chris had hit him. He had been close to crying and so she had shushed him, gesturing to the half-asleep Ariette next to her. The dark circles under her eyes grew darker as she sighed and tiredly said that Roger needed to understand Chris and talk to Chris himself. To solve his own problems because he "wasn't a baby anymore". Of course, she added, it was not good to hit. But Chris should know that, of course he did – they had taught him that long ago. There was some other issue there, and these hidden issues Roger should be mature enough to find out himself. "This is not worthy enough of my time" was what Roger heard.

That was one of the conversations Roger remembered perfectly. That was also the day that Roger started watching. Not just Chris and occasionally his father – everybody. He learned to anticipate, for one, and then to avoid.

The later fights were never brought up to his mother again.

For a time Roger tried to convince himself that it was out of pity. His mother only left his sister's bedside for a few hours every few days when it was time for her to teach her chemical engineering classes at the university two blocks from home. She could have done better, her being as well educated as her husband, but the distance from the university to their home won her over. She also reasoned that his father's job made it so it was not necessary to risk Ariette's safety. A nurse, in Mrs. Anstrom's eyes, could never be qualified enough to oversee her daughter for over three hours.

Because of that need for control, she only graded work at night, when her daughter had fallen asleep. And only in the study that was adjacent to Ariette's bedroom.

_I haven't told her_, he told himself at eight years old when Christopher left a few red marks that would fade in a few hours, _because she's tired and doesn't have time for this._

_You were afraid that it would finally confirm she didn't care_, he said back at age twelve, sitting across from a boy he'd murdered with his hands. _Not for any other reason. No point in lying. You didn't give a fuck about her feelings –_

_And how much did she care about you, when –? _

_Is that normal?_

He had wanted to be normal so badly, he remembered, and would watch and watch and watch, seeing if others were confirming that yes, he was fine. He was normal. There was nothing wrong with him.

And that was how Roger watched Simon's face now. _Judgment. That's what I was afraid of_, he recalled. _Judgment if I spoke too much or went to a social worker or failed a test or –_

Waiting for it now, he realized he didn't really care. _Let him._

But Simon didn't try to move away, he didn't frown, nothing like that. The only change was a faint look of sadness. "Not really 'might for right'," he said, laughing softly and glancing aside.

_Just change the subject then you don't have to –_

_No._ "'Might for right' was 'not really' what I was taught." It came out rather biting. "Sorry." _No, I'm not._

Simon turned back to him. "No, you're not."

Roger shrugged. His voice still carried a bitter edge. "Probably because I've watched grown men fight kids too much – no, that's wrong. One grown man. Oh, and wait, another correction – it wasn't a fight. More of a… game. He fucking _toyed_ with them. He could pin a kid's legs down with one hand and block any punches with the other. He didn't even hit until later, when that boy was too tired. _Then_ he could follow up a beating with a few sentences on filial piety. What a _great_ man, don't you think?" Roger hissed. Some of that old anger, the one from before the island, had come back. _Thank God._ He loved that anger.

"I'm sorry," Simon whispered.

Roger felt the anger leave him as he watched the other boy. It just went. And just like that, his fuel was gone. "No. You shouldn't be, not really. Be-because he _was _– great, that is – outside of those s-sessions. His… little boys could love him and that love would always find a way back, no matter what… events got in its way.

"And you know, that man loved them just as much. Which, of course, made it even harder for _anybody_ to hate him. He took us to parks and made us laugh and he truly loved us, okay?" His tone was nearing pleading so he took a moment to calm down before continuing. "That's what messed Chris up. Both of us, actually. We knew that fathers were supposed to love, and our father did. I guess Chris ran before getting any further than that thought but maybe he – I don't know, I just… I hadn't even turned nine yet, alright? I couldn't think through all that shit, and I guess I –" Roger breathed deeply. "He loved us, and that's what we knew fathers _should_ do. And so I thought that maybe _we_ were wrong. I mean, he never hit us for no reason. It always started from one argument or another. A bad grade, not helping clean, whatever. So I-I told myself for nearly a year that it was Chris's fault, that it was my fault, and th-that my father deserved_ better_ children. Smarter, more polite, more organized, less lazy."

Simon looked slightly shocked. "But… that's not true."

"Yeah, I started believing _that_ later." Roger tilted his head back, trying to be inconspicuous while waiting for the tears to go. They didn't, though. He tried summoning some anger to burn them away. _Better rage than tears. Even uncontrollable rage is better. _That had been his mantra after the one year.

But it didn't work this time. Finally, he just straightened and scrubbed at his eyes angrily. He realized there was a good chance he was going to start sobbing and so gave a half-smile, half-grimace.

"And that's why we 'stole' the specs," he said, though Simon never really asked. _'Might for right'. Bullshit._ "We could, therefore it was our right."

**Review? Thanks in advance.**


	4. Chapter 4

Simon still looked troubled but decided, for now, not to press for details about that year. "So you guys got the specs. How did you all get rescued?"

"Well, they tried to get them back first. Ralph, Samneric, and Piggy." Roger said the last name with a sneer. "They were diplomatic, holding the conch and everything when they got to Castle Rock.

"We wouldn't give the specs up. Then _Piggy _started talking, claiming he could because of the _conch_. I dropped a boulder on him and cracked his skull open."

Roger couldn't tell if Simon was alarmed. He wondered briefly if spirits were omniscient, and maybe that's why Simon wasn't surprised at the information.

"Why?"

"Because I hated him," Roger snarled. "Nothing was stopping me, either, so –" He stopped talking, though. The realization had been wonderful when he first discovered it on the island, but when he had spoken it out loud just now, he didn't really feel anything. All the rules had been broken, all that he had wanted to do he had done. _Now what?_

He was considering this slowly when Simon said, "You won't get sent to an asylum or anything. Kids rarely end up in those."

"Yeah. I know." He had known right when he started exploring the possibilities of the island. "But I should probably be in one." Pause. "I didn't hate him that much. But I hated him the most. And so that's where my… efforts were directed."

"Do you feel sorry?"

"No, and I won't ever." Roger glared but Simon's expression remained soft. "It wasn't my fault about Chris or my parents. I did my best to believe it, and it's sort of hard to feel sorry after that. Or anything, actually," he added with a snort. "Being angry all the fucking time wasn't _good_, but I liked it a lot. Probably way too much."

"Why?"

Roger shrugged and looked away. "I don't know." The bed next to him was made, the sheets spread out and even just like new, but he couldn't remember who occupied it. "It helped me, though. It sort of. Pushed me." _Away from that year._

The thought went unsaid, but Simon seemed to have guessed and said nothing. He just listened.

Roger instinctively folded his arms around his legs so that the insides of the forearms were turned towards him. If you knew what you were looking for, you would have been able to see a few near-parallel lines running down both forearms, places where the skin was just a shade darker. But they were hardly even scars now, and could easily be mistaken for a wrinkle or just a shadow.

He resisted the urge to glance down at them now. Then he consciously unfolded his arms and nodded to his arms with a sigh. "My own nails worked the best at first, but I used a toothpick once. The pocketknife didn't live up to expectations and so I later got a slightly blunt letter opener, a decorative dagger imitation thing. In the end, though, nearly a year of trying and I still couldn't draw blood." He paused. "I think I was scared. To actually do it and…"

"It would be a shock if you weren't," Simon said quietly.

_And apparently your body will fight against the attempts, too, to try and avoid pain. Something like that. _He'd read about that later, and afterwards decided that stabbing himself in the neck or stomach wouldn't be the best bet. "But I wanted to do it so badly and I couldn't. I thought I was horrible and maybe that's why I wanted to in the first place but I – Well I don't – I suppose it was for attention, maybe. My parents didn't think I needed any, and…" He laughed. "Of all the ways to try and request it."

"They had to have noticed." Simon looked sincerely concerned.

_You're dead why does it matter to you? _"I sometimes thought that they did, but they never mentioned it to me, and I don't know if I prefer them knowing or not. If they did, they didn't care."

The other cringed. "Oh, that's –"

"Or maybe they saw but thought they were just scratches from a tree and nothing to worry about," Roger said quickly, and gave a shrug. "Back then, I'd wish that they would know for a moment, though. Then forget. I just… wanted to see their reactions. I wanted them to know how bad it was because I-I was always the 'good' one, you know? Ariette was born physically weak and my brother was what my parents would call 'stupid' behind closed doors. But I was normal, in their eyes." Remembering the island, Roger felt the old desire resurface. He _wanted_ his parents to be there at the dock to see how he had changed. He wanted them to listen to him talk about killing and torturing and just what ran through his head and he wanted to shout "this is your fault" as he was dragged away._ Except that won't happen._

"But it's not like –" His voice broke off and he frowned. _Control yourself just put the mask back on. _"They cared. I knew they loved me and cared about me, all right? They just… d-didn't think I needed it. I was thegood one and I don't know but I could manage myself so well when I started school and they were glad, you know? They were _geniuses_ and they loved us all but they were glad that one of their children was promising and m-maybe they didn't want to _tamper_ with that."

Simon moved as if to embrace him but Roger shrunk back sharply. He noticed his right hand start shaking. "Sorry," they both said at the same time.

"I don't… really like touch. Usually," Roger muttered as both of them settled into their original positions. He was half certain that he had built this aversion to touch and the automatic reaction that followed inside his system himself, but it was there no matter the cause. Except it had always been stronger around Chris and his father.

"It was more my fault." Simon waited until he was sure Roger had calmed, which didn't take too long. "How did the year come to an end?"

Roger's mouth twitched. "It didn't really get better. All those times after I'd argue with them… it wasn't that good. Towards the later months… I, uh, started trying to figure out where the major veins and arteries were located. I learned a few knots and practiced them. Hangman's knot, things along that line." He never really liked thinking about it, but now Roger was searching for more details. _To get a reaction out of him. I actually want a reaction. That's. Ironic._ "And I found a way up to our roof, as well as the roofs of some other buildings nearby. My school and such."

Simon's eyes were wide. "You didn't…?"

"I got the rope set up once. But I didn't really want to do it. I mean… my only reason was to cause my parents pain or just get _some_ emotion from them, essentially. And, um, that's not that good of a reason in my case. For dying at least. So I stopped what I was doing and started trying to affect them using other methods."

Simon cocked his head. "I'm… not sure if I should congratulate you."

Roger laughed and Simon returned with an open smile. "It started with leaving for St. Peter's. It helped me, sure, except it hardly hurt them. I thought I was being strong, though – on the offense, sort of. But no, it was still because _they_ were hurting me." _And I was just… running._

The smaller boy didn't say anything, just moved slightly closer. Roger didn't try to draw out the distance.


End file.
